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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23256715">well love is such an abstract art</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherx/pseuds/featherx'>featherx</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>requests [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:07:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,633</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23256715</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherx/pseuds/featherx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think I could say your face is, hm… an acquired taste.”</p><p>“I’m… not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.” Byleth shrugs. “Either way, it doesn’t matter to me. But I just get… hm, what’s the word? It’s like I can’t really relate whenever my sister tells me about her girlfriends. What’s it like?”</p><p>“Then…” Linhardt leans forward to touch the inside of Byleth’s wrist, slow and subtle enough that Byleth jolts in surprise at his fingers. “Do you want me to show you?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Linhardt von Hevring/My Unit | Byleth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>requests [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1388335</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>190</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>byhardt</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>well love is such an abstract art</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/doyounqk/gifts">saintcethlin (doyounqk)</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>prompt: byhardt, college AU<br/>title from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R216962jA7M">fools - the ransom collective</a> (because if i don't title a college AU after a TRC song i will die)<br/>this went 3.5k over the requested word count and is deathly similar to another byhardt WIP of mine lmao 😭 but it was really fun to do! thanks for requesting!! ❤</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Linhardt, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am writing to you once more because I fear my last email did not reach you. As you must know by now, I am concerned about your choice to study psychology and what you might decide to do in the future— </em>
</p><p>“Are you kidding me?” Linhardt mutters. It takes less than twenty seconds for him to find the block button, the motion muscle memory by this point, and watch the email disappear from his phone screen. “I thought I blocked his address already. Did he make another account just to send the exact same thing he told me last time?”</p><p>Beside him, Byleth frowns and offers him his glass of orange juice. “Are you alright?”</p><p>“I’m—” <em> fine, </em> Linhardt almost automatically responds, but then sighs and shakes his head. “Not. No, I hate orange juice.”</p><p>“Awful taste,” Byleth remarks, and sips his glass. “Was that your father?”</p><p>“Yes. Again.” Linhardt leans back against the couch, uncaring of the mysterious stains on the fabric. Around them, the party rages on—people dancing, screaming, drinking, and doing plenty more activities Linhardt would rather pretend he can’t see. <em> Ugh… </em> why had they gone again? Oh, right, for the food. He’s glad they’d decided to go early, because now half the food on the table has been contaminated by either vomit or drugs.</p><p>Linhardt shoves his phone back in his pocket. “It’s just—why does he care so much? I understand that continuing the family business is important and all, I <em> do, </em> but can’t he just push it onto someone else who <em> actually </em>works in the hospital and has medical knowledge?”</p><p>“Don’t you?” Byleth asks, tilting his head in that annoyingly endearing way of his.</p><p>“Stuff I picked up on while I was growing up doesn’t count.” Linhardt winces at the mere memory of sitting alone in his father’s hospital waiting room everyday, swinging his legs to the distant <em> beep </em> of a heart monitor and staring blankly at the blood that speckled the pure-white tiles. Had Father hoped to convince him to be a doctor through <em> that? </em> Because it hadn’t worked in the slightest.</p><p>Byleth frowns. “That’s true. I guess… your father doesn’t listen to you when you try to explain yourself to him, then?”</p><p>“Not at all. I certainly wish he did.” Linhardt stares up at the ceiling. There had been a <em> slight </em> improvement over the past four years of college—instead of convincing him to shift to a biology or chemistry course, Father had settled for convincing him to shift to BS Psych, rather than BA. Which, really, still isn’t much of an improvement, and it’s honestly hilarious considering Linhardt’s about to <em> graduate </em> already. “I wish he were more like your dad,” Linhardt muses. “He always seems so relaxed. Sort of wish I had an older sibling too, so I’m not the one next in line to the business.”</p><p>He glances to the side—Byleth’s face has softened, and despite his own bitterness, Linhardt can’t help but smile too. Byleth’s resting face looks so serious and severe, but mentioning his family always makes him look as friendly as he actually is.</p><p>Someone screeches at an intensity that very nearly shatters glass—Linhardt has more or less grown used to noise, being best friends with Caspar, but he catches Byleth visibly wince and shrink in on himself. Right… Byleth doesn’t do very well with sudden loud sounds. “Hey. It’s getting too loud in here—want to go out?”</p><p>“Okay.” And, in a soft undertone Linhardt barely hears, “Thanks.”</p><p>It’s pleasantly cool outside, and half the lamp posts flickering out just add to the atmosphere. They walk in relative silence towards the glow of a vending machine, where Byleth immediately gets a can of strawberry juice from, until Linhardt speaks up again. “What about you?”</p><p>Byleth looks up from inserting his coins in the slot. “Hm?”</p><p>“You were telling me the other day… about how you feel.” Linhardt shrugs. “About your own course.”</p><p>“Oh.” Byleth sighs as he pops the can open, and Linhardt leans against the side of the vending machine littered with old posters and graffiti. “I guess… I’m the opposite of you? I don’t know what to do once I graduate.” He stares down at his can, some of the juice bubbling out onto the surface. “I told you I only chose economics because my sister did, right?”</p><p>“Yes, the ever-famous Byleth.” Linhardt will never understand why the twins had both been named Byleth. Couldn’t their father have picked the name of a different king from Hell?</p><p>Byleth smiles again, though only for a second—it disappears in the next instant when he continues. “I thought I’d grow to like it eventually, but, um. It’s been four years and I still don’t care about it at all.” He sips his drink, staring thoughtfully into space. “But it’s too late to shift courses, if I even wanted to. We’re graduating this year, after all.”</p><p>“Mm, you’re right… it’s our last year, huh.” Might explain why Linhardt’s been feeling on edge for the past several months. Graduation used to seem so far away, and now it’s right around the corner. Literally. The campus is five minutes away from whoever’s house this is. “I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time for anything…”</p><p>“Me too.” Byleth pouts. “Did you know the other day, my dad asked me if I was in a relationship yet, and I had to tell him I’ve been as single as the day I was born?”</p><p>Linhardt coughs out a laugh. “Are you serious? Until now?” He’d known Byleth isn’t much for relationships, but even this is too much, isn’t it?</p><p>“Yeah. I don’t know, I’ve never really met anyone…” Byleth scratches his cheek, and if the glow of the vending machine isn’t playing tricks on Linhardt’s eyes, then his face is beginning to color pink. “But, uh…”</p><p>“But?” Linhardt prompts. <em> Don’t get your hopes up, don’t get your hopes up… </em></p><p>“But I’m curious,” Byleth says, gaze fixed on the ground, “about… what it might be like? I guess? But there isn’t any time for that, I’m barely passing in class as is.” He huffs and gulps down more strawberry juice. “That, and I don’t think anyone even likes me, so.”</p><p>Linhardt’s heart feels ready to beat right out of his chest. “No one likes you?”</p><p>Byleth blinks. “I’ve been told I’m not very likable.”</p><p>“What? Why?”</p><p>“Um… I speak my mind too much.” Byleth laughs softly under his breath. “Which means I’m not good at giving compliments. Ah, and my face is too serious all the time…”</p><p>Linhardt bites back his own smile. He remembers meeting Byleth for the first time in their shared literature class back in their first year and thinking, <em> huh, not really my type </em> —and then Byleth had proceeded to get every single question about the reading assignment completely wrong because he was being too literal, and Linhardt had thought, <em> huh, I like that in a man. </em> “I think I could say your face is, hm… an acquired taste.”</p><p>“I’m… not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.” Byleth shrugs. “Either way, it doesn’t matter to me. But I just get… hm, what’s the word? It’s like I can’t really relate whenever my sister tells me about her girlfriends. What’s it like?”</p><p>“Then…” Linhardt leans forward to touch the inside of Byleth’s wrist, slow and subtle enough that Byleth jolts in surprise at his fingers. “Do you want me to show you?”</p><p>Byleth stares at him, silent, almost expectant, almost as if—waiting. His eyes are wide, the blue clear as the water in the river near Linhardt’s summer home, and he’s not <em> saying </em> anything, and what is Linhardt supposed to do now?</p><p><em> No, second thoughts are just a burden—</em>so Linhardt does away with all of them and presses close to kiss him.</p><p>Under better circumstances, Linhardt thinks this could be a kiss for the blockbusters—veiled in the city lights, by the glow of a humming vending machine, Byleth’s lips sweet as strawberry and soft against Linhardt’s own. Linhardt’s touch turns into a grip on his wrist, palm directly above the pulse point where he can feel Byleth’s heart beating rabbit-quick. Under better circumstances, Linhardt thinks he might have kissed him again and again under the night sky.</p><p>Under better circumstances, Byleth would have kissed him back.</p><p>Linhardt draws away slowly, reluctant to part with Byleth’s warmth—<em>although, </em> he thinks, numbly, at the blank look on Byleth’s face, <em> perhaps it’s better I get used to the cold sooner than later, </em> because there’s confusion and surprise and so many more emotions Linhardt can’t be bothered to list down swirling in Byleth’s eyes that it’s all the answer he needs.</p><p>“Ah,” he murmurs, low and without a shred of emotion, “I’m… sorry.”</p><p>“Huh?” Byleth finally says, although Linhardt wishes he’d just stayed silent.</p><p>“Never mind that. I didn’t…” <em> I don’t know what came over me, </em> Linhardt wants to say, but that would be a lie. He does, he knows <em> exactly </em> why he’d done that, only now he wishes he could hurtle back through time and bury past-Linhardt alive before he can even <em> think </em> of doing what he’d just done. “I’m sorry. I—pretend that didn’t happen?”</p><p>Linhardt’s not sure what Byleth looks like right now because he refuses to look at him, but he thinks Byleth’s brow might furrow in concern, or maybe crease in confusion, and just the <em> thought </em> of his face makes Linhardt want to claw his eyes out. “No, wait—”</p><p>“I’m going ahead,” Linhardt bites out, and walks past Byleth so fast he nearly skids across the pavement.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It’s hard to point out when, exactly, Linhardt found himself liking Byleth less than platonically.</p><p>The only class they shared was classic lit, which Byleth did absolutely atrocious in. They’d been partnered up for some project or other, involving a book Linhardt had already read three times when he was in high school, and Byleth could barely get past the first few chapters. “I can’t focus that well,” Byleth had admitted to him, in the middle of working on the slides presentation together. “It’s like the words just… make sense, but don’t. Something like that.”</p><p>“Is that a disability?” Linhardt had asked, as politely as possible, and Byleth shook his head. “Then I’m out of guesses. Don’t worry about it. There are summaries online.”</p><p>Linhardt can’t lie and say he hadn’t been bothered at first, because he was. Byleth was almost no help in the project, and Linhardt had needed to answer every question their professor threw at them during their presentation because Byleth refused to speak outside his assigned slides. But… Linhardt supposes he does understand, in a way. He can’t focus on anything he doesn’t want to either, and his father had told him off for that dozens of times before. <em> A problem child, </em> he’d been called, among other names.</p><p>“Do your parents know?” Linhardt asked him. He can’t remember when or why they’d been talking—maybe Linhardt had started the conversation, because Byleth certainly wouldn’t have.</p><p>“My dad tries to help, but he’s not much for reading either,” Byleth explained. He had not mentioned his mother. Linhardt had not felt the need to inquire further. “He’s nice about it, though. It’s not my fault if I can’t perform as well as I want to, stuff like that.” And then—Linhardt could not have ever adequately prepared for his smile. “Why do you ask?”</p><p>Linhardt shrugs. “Because I’m the same.”</p><p>Except his own father had never cared about whatever Linhardt had to say, ever since his mother died and the Angelica herbs she planted in their garden withered along with her—except Linhardt doesn’t remember the last time someone said it isn’t his fault if he doesn’t want to do what his father wants for him, except they’re not the same at all, really. But Byleth smiles again, small and soft and so unassuming, and Linhardt can’t bring himself to say any of that.</p><p>Linhardt could not have said when he had fallen in love. He just had. It was that fast, that simple, that easy.</p><p>He wishes dealing with it were the same.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Avoiding Byleth isn’t hard—their schedules aligned fairly often, but they aren’t roommates and Byleth lives in a nearby apartment with his father while Linhardt dorms, so all Linhardt really has to do is eat lunch alone in bed while feeling like a sewer rat and he doesn’t have to run into Byleth at all.</p><p>Which sucks. Linhardt had gotten used to seeing him pretty much everyday, and after two weeks of radio silence, it feels like he’s suffering from Byleth withdrawal symptoms, something he doesn’t particularly want to think about.</p><p>His ‘Byleth distancing,’ as Caspar calls it, is interrupted when Linhardt’s on his way to his next class and hears what sounds like the voice of a child from beneath a tree in the campus garden. He takes a few steps closer out of curiosity—there are rarely any children in a university, after all—and blinks stupidly when he sees, of all people, Byleth crouching down to speak with a child who doesn’t look more than seven years old.</p><p>Oh. Linhardt has to look away before he’s blinded by the radiance of Byleth’s smile.</p><p>“Linhardt?” he hears—Linhardt hesitantly turns back, and mentally beats himself up when he sees Byleth looking up at him and waving him over. The child turns to face him as well, big green eyes matching her long green hair. “This is my friend,” Byleth introduces, brushing the child’s bangs out of her eyes. “Say hello to Linhardt.”</p><p>“Hello, Linheart!” she chirps. Terrible pronunciation, but it’s sort of cute and reminds Linhardt of how Byleth had first said his name, so he’ll let it go. “‘M Flayn! Nice to meet you!”</p><p>Linhardt nods awkwardly. “Uh, hi.”</p><p>“She was just showing me her Pokémon team.” Byleth nudges Flayn’s elbow, and she eagerly lifts her tiny hands up to proudly present a Nintendo DS. Wow. Linhardt hasn’t seen one of these in forever. “You already beat the Elite Four last time we met, right? Who’s your favorite again?”</p><p>“Giratina!” Flayn cries. Linhardt bends down to peer closer at the screen. The legendary Pokémon of the Distortion World roars up at him. Okay, then. “But I like Darkrai too!” She presses on the control pad, and this time the nightmare-themed Pokémon glares menacingly into Linhardt’s eyes. <em> Okay, </em> then.</p><p>Byleth shoots him a look from above Flayn’s head, his smile growing. “Flayn has weird taste.”</p><p>“No I don’t! That’s you!” Flayn turns back around and whaps Byleth’s arm. It probably doesn’t hurt at all, considering her sweater sleeves are too long and flop around, but Byleth reels back with a mock cry. “You didn’t even play Platinum. I bet I’d win a fight.”</p><p>“Hmm, you bet?”</p><p>Flayn nods seriously. “My team could destroy you.”</p><p>Byleth smiles back up at Linhardt. “She’s going to grow up big and strong.”</p><p>“<em>Is </em> she,” Linhardt says, not sure how he’s even supposed to respond. If the kid doesn’t like psychic-types, what’s the point—wait, no, more importantly, why is Byleth acting like nothing really <em> did </em> happen? Linhardt almost hopes what happened two weeks ago was just a fever dream his mind cooked up after months of stress and studying, but Linhardt’s not at that level of delusional just yet (probably).</p><p>But he can’t think of any explanation as to why Byleth’s still looking at him like that, still <em> smiling </em> at him like that, and not at all like the blank stare he had given him on that night.</p><p>“Flayn!” someone calls—all three of them turn to face the source, who happens to be Professor Seteth from the philosophy department.</p><p>Flayn brightens. “Papa!”</p><p>Seteth practically leaps the last few meters between them to sweep Flayn into his arms. “<em>There </em> you are—don’t wander around! This isn’t your playground, how many times did I tell you…” He looks up at Byleth and Linhardt, and Linhardt cannot even begin to describe how awkward it is to have his least favorite professor look so weirdly grateful to them when Linhardt had grown pretty used to Seteth staring disapprovingly down at him for the past four years. “Did you find her? Thank you both so much.”</p><p>“Um…” Linhardt blinks. Beside him, Byleth doesn’t even look surprised. “I didn’t know she was your daughter, professor.” <em>I didn’t know you had a daughter at all.</em></p><p>“Papa is my papa!” Flayn declares, gesturing grandly to Seteth’s face. Linhardt <em> supposes </em> there’s a bit of resemblance, though it mostly comes from the green hair. “Papa, this is Linheart! Uh, Linhard…?”</p><p>Seteth just sighs. “Sorry for the trouble, you two. No one was available to watch her at home, so I had to bring her to campus… hopefully this won’t happen again.”</p><p>“It’s never any trouble.” Byleth bends down to smile at Flayn again. “But she has really bad taste in Pokémon.”</p><p>Flayn smacks his nose. Linhardt has never so badly wanted to evaporate off the face of the earth more than right this instant before the sweetness makes him explode.</p><p>Seteth chuckles. “I’m always surprised to remember you’re good with children, Byleth. Your father always tells me how his face scares away all the kids at the preschool, but it looks like you’ve got your mother’s eyes and smile.”</p><p>Byleth doesn’t respond at first, staring down at the grass, before he manages a nod. “I guess,” he murmurs, and leaves it at that.</p><p>When Seteth and Flayn leave (after Flayn and Byleth exchange tearful goodbyes), Linhardt clears his throat and fixes his gaze on a point somewhere beneath Byleth’s left eye. “I never knew you were good with kids,” he says, although what he really wants to say is, <em> Your dad’s friends with Professor Seteth? </em> You’re <em> friends with Professor Seteth? </em></p><p>“Oh, I don’t know.” Byleth scratches his cheek, that nervous habit of his that tells Linhardt he’s getting shy. Why does he have to be so ridiculously adorable? It almost gets on Linhardt’s nerves. “I don’t really do anything special. But I guess I got used to them after a while.” Which Linhardt supposes makes sense—Byleth’s father works as a security guard at a nearby preschool, and Byleth tends to go there after classes.</p><p>Without thinking, Linhardt laughs and says, “You don’t really look the type, so it’s kind of cute.”</p><p>Byleth looks at him, and that’s when Linhardt thinks <em> oh, shit, </em> because—okay, did he really just say that? What is wrong with him? It would have been fine <em> before </em> the whole kiss-thing happened because Byleth is too dense to really pick up on any attempts at flirting, but now… Linhardt meets his eyes, just in time for Byleth to redirect his gaze back down to the grass.</p><p>Great. Great! Now he’s made it awkward. “Uh, I—” Linhardt wracks his brain for an excuse, then realizes he has a legitimate reason to leave. “I’ve got a class soon, um—I should go. Bye—”</p><p>“Wait—Linhardt,” Byleth calls, grabbing his wrist before Linhardt can make his escape. Some part of Linhardt wants to resist, but the rest of him gives up—he knows how strong Byleth is. “Um. About… About last time.”</p><p>Linhardt stares straight ahead. “Yeah. About that.”</p><p>“I did my best to pretend it never happened, like you said,” Byleth tells him.</p><p>Why is he like this. Linhardt wants to tear all his hair out. “So, what? You’re just fine with it? You don’t hate me for what I did?”</p><p>He says all that sarcastically, because wouldn’t even the nicest person be the <em> slightest </em> bit bothered by what happened last time? Linhardt knows <em> he </em> would. He’d probably cut off all relations with anyone who did that to him, or even <em> tried </em> to do that to him. But Byleth just frowns, all confused, and says, “I could never hate you,” like the words don’t make Linhardt’s heart leap into his throat like a frog on steroids.</p><p>It’s stuff like this, words like these, that just make Linhardt fall deeper in love with Byleth. He says whatever is on his mind, and therefore isn’t the best at compliments, and yet Linhardt had never minded that part of him because he <em> likes </em> that about Byleth. What’s the point in decorating one’s feelings with unnecessary words? Byleth is so easy to understand it’s almost disconcerting—he’s <em> honest, </em> and that’s how Linhardt just knows he can trust Byleth unconditionally—Byleth never expects anything out of him aside for Linhardt to be himself, he always listens whenever Linhardt goes on tangents about topics in his psychology classes even though Byleth probably doesn’t understand a word, Byleth just cares so <em> much— </em></p><p>“I can’t keep pretending, though,” Byleth says, his voice soft but snapping Linhardt out of his thoughts. “Because it… did happen. And I owe you something.”</p><p>“What on earth do you owe me?” Linhardt mutters, finally lifting his gaze to meet Byleth’s eyes. A blue so clear it’s painful. “A slap in the face? No, maybe a punch. I suppose you can punch me once. But I ask you to only use maybe half your strength, because if it’s at 100 percent—”</p><p>And then he’s not sure what else he would’ve said, because suddenly there’s a weight on his mouth shutting him up, and Linhardt realizes, extremely dumbly, <em> oh, he’s kissing me. </em></p><p>This time Byleth tastes like a combination of the cheese rolls they serve at the cafeteria and Jeralt’s signature sugar pancakes, which, while not exactly the greatest mix of flavors, is so sweet Linhardt almost can’t believe it. For a moment he can’t even react, much like Byleth those nights ago—and then he’s wrapping his arms around Byleth’s neck and kissing back as hard as he can, almost feverishly, tangling his hands in Byleth’s messy hair.</p><p>What in God’s green earth is happening right now? Linhardt does not know, and Linhardt does not care—the only thing that matters right now is that Byleth is <em> kissing him, </em> voluntarily, of his own accord, and Linhardt will be damned if he doesn’t kiss back.</p><p>When they separate for air, Byleth can only stare, wide-eyed, at Linhardt’s mouth for several long seconds. “Was that… okay?”</p><p>“What?” Linhardt says, still a bit dizzy.</p><p>“I, uh, don’t think I’m very good at… at kissing.”</p><p>Linhardt, still not really processing anything, can only string together the most eloquent of words: “Uh… that, uh…”</p><p>“Was it that bad?” Byleth frets.</p><p>That breaks Linhardt out of his daze, and he laughs against Byleth’s neck. “No, that—that was fine, I mean, for a first… well, second time. Wait, but—” He swallows. He doesn’t particularly <em> want </em> to ask this, but—he figures he sort of owes it to Byleth to communicate this time around before rushing blindly into things. “Are you sure about this? Last time, you were… you looked…”</p><p><em> Like you hated me, </em> he leaves unspoken.</p><p>Byleth frowns, pressing their foreheads together as if for support. “Can I be honest?”</p><p>“Aren’t you always?”</p><p>He huffs out a laugh Linhardt can’t help but smile at. “I’m… I’m not sure myself. But—I don’t like seeing you sad. And… I think I like kissing you?” Byleth says, weakly. One of his hands comes up to brush against Linhardt’s cheeks, and Linhardt can swear his touch feels downright reverent. “Among other things, I guess.”</p><p>God, what is that even supposed to mean? Does Byleth just want him as a friend with benefits? Linhardt’s not sure if he can survive that, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to let this go. “Works for me,” he sighs, leaning in to Byleth’s hand. “You have no idea how to kiss, don’t you?”</p><p>Byleth shakes his head, shyly, and Linhardt smiles. “It’s fine. I can teach you.”</p><p>Linhardt ends up cutting the rest of his classes for the day.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Was it when Byleth first asked if they could eat lunch together, because he’d accidentally made too much food this morning? Because Linhardt vividly remembers how Byleth had given him a humongous chunk of steamed fish and how Linhardt had jokingly commented, “I wouldn’t mind having this everyday,” and then Byleth had taken that perhaps a little bit too close to heart.</p><p>Or was it when Linhardt was in the library at nearly six in the evening, nodding off on one of his textbooks, when Byleth had nudged him awake and Linhardt had muttered he’d have to carry him back to the dorms if he wanted Linhardt to move anywhere, and then the next thing he knew he was in Byleth’s arms and halfway across campus? To be fair, that was more of an embarrassing moment than anything, but it had taken hours for his heart to settle back into a regular, non-panicky rhythm, and days for Linhardt to forget the warmth of Byleth’s chest against his face.</p><p>Or, no… was it when Linhardt had gotten blackout-drunk (entirely Caspar and Sylvain’s fault, they should never have let those two meet) and Byleth, with an exceptionally high tolerance, had helped him back to his dorm in the dead of night—except Linhardt had forgotten his keys, so they’d had to make the walk back to Byleth’s apartment instead?</p><p>It was a cold night, Linhardt remembers. It helped sober him up a little, but not enough to let him walk properly without tripping over every crack in the pavement, so he’d had to lean on Byleth’s shoulder for 90 percent of the trip. “Byleth,” he’d asked, “do you ever feel like your life is going nowhere?”</p><p>A pause. How long had it been? A second, a minute, an hour? “Why?”</p><p>“Because I do.”</p><p>“Oh. I do too, I guess.”</p><p>Linhardt peered at him curiously. In the light of the lamp posts, Byleth’s blue eyes had shimmered spring green instead. It’s his turn to ask “Why?”</p><p>“I don’t know what to do after college.” They turned the corner and Byleth’s apartment building was there, just vaguely familiar after Linhardt had visited him the first few times. “I didn’t even want to go to college. But I passed the entrance test, so I thought I might as well.”</p><p>“You don’t like your course?”</p><p>“Who does?” Byleth muttered, and Linhardt had laughed too loud for the silent night. “It’s okay. I’ve got time to figure it out. And my dad’s fine with whatever I want. Still…”</p><p>Linhardt blinked up at him. He usually has to look down, because he never passes up the chance to tease Byleth about their two-centimeter height difference, but right then he couldn’t be bothered to stand up straight. And besides, looking at Byleth from below had given him a new angle he hadn’t thought would look so… well… <em> flattering, </em> he supposed, was one word. “Still?”</p><p>“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Byleth murmured. Linhardt stumbled on yet another bump on the road, but Byleth reacted fast, taking his arm quick but gentle and steadying him so easily that in that moment, it made Linhardt want to lean on him for the rest of… he didn’t know how long. Only that he wanted it, as badly as a human with a heart could want anything. “But sometimes I want to be like you.”</p><p>Linhardt scowled. “Absolutely cannot relate.”</p><p>Byleth had laughed softly, voice muffled in Linhardt’s hair. “I mean—I know you don’t want to, this is just me if I were in your shoes… but I want a family business I know I’m going to inherit. Something like that. Then I wouldn’t have to think about… you know, how I’m not doing anything with my life.”</p><p>“Oh.” Linhardt kicked a pebble. It skittered across the street before rolling into the gutter. “Yeah, I… I can see the. Um. Appeal? The appeal in that. You know, if you… if your dad was your dad too. And if you liked hospitals.”</p><p>Byleth nods. “You don’t?”</p><p>“There are ghosts everywhere.” <em> And blood. Always blood. </em> “And, ah, uh—it’s just boring. I mean, not boring—I guess saving lives isn’t really boring, huh—” Linhardt grins at Byleth’s laugh. “But—there’s something more to psych. Like. Figuring out what makes a person’s head just <em> click </em> into place… you know, I don’t think that’s the right word for it.”</p><p>“I don’t think so either,” Byleth agrees. They’re in the elevator going up now, and the clunky rattling is making Linhardt dizzier than ever. “But I get what you mean. It’s more interesting to you than medicine, right?”</p><p>“It’s the most… most interesting thing in the world.”</p><p>Byleth nods again. “It makes you happy?”</p><p>“Mm. It does.”</p><p>The elevator doors slide open but Byleth doesn’t lead him out right away—he stares down at Linhardt instead, as if realizing something for the first time. “Okay,” Byleth eventually says, a soft smile spreading on his face. “Then I’m happy for you, too.”</p><p>So maybe it was that, after all.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Linhardt.” Byleth yawns. “You’ve got a new email.”</p><p>“Do I?” It’s probably a reply from Professor Hanneman about the group project he’d shoved down their throats. Linhardt’s head aches just thinking about it. Much as he needs to read it, though, he’s wrapped himself up in two layers of Byleth’s blankets and can’t do much from where he’s curled up on Byleth’s bed. “Uh, I can’t move… can you read it for me?”</p><p>Byleth picks up his phone, presumably unlocks it, and frowns at the screen. “Uh, it’s from… the email address is a bunch of random numbers and letters… I think it’s spam mail. What if your phone gets a virus if I open it—”</p><p>“Just read it. I like spam mail. It’s stupid and entertaining.”</p><p>“Okay.” Byleth clears his throat. “<em> Dear Linhardt. Have my emails not been reaching you? Or are you intentionally ignoring the— </em>”</p><p>Linhardt leans over, grabs his phone out of Byleth’s hands, and blocks the address so quickly, it’s almost like something possessed him. “For <em> fuck’s </em>sake.”</p><p>Byleth blinks, before understanding dawns on his face. “Was that…?”</p><p>“Third new account he made just to message me about my <em> choices in life,</em>” Linhardt hisses, throwing his phone back to bounce onto the bed. “Doesn’t he ever get sick of hearing himself say the same things over and over again?”</p><p>“Linhardt…”</p><p>Byleth’s tone is calming, placating, but Linhardt can’t be calmed or placated—there’s a ringing in his head that sounds like the scream of a thousand childhood ghosts, clamoring for attention in the middle of the afternoon. “Can’t he just leave me alone? He’s been like this my entire life, why can’t he just <em> listen </em> to me for once about what <em> I </em> want—”</p><p>He sucks in a shuddering breath, and belatedly realizes he’s shaking—Linhardt curls further in on himself, biting down on his lower lip, fists clenched so tight his nails cut into his palms. Vaguely he registers Byleth moving from his chair to his bed, shuffling forward on his knees to take Linhardt’s hands in his own, so <em> gently </em> it almost causes a visceral reaction in Linhardt. He holds in the rest of his words and releases them through a sigh instead, one that feels heavy enough to weigh the world down with his burden.</p><p>The next few heartbeats pass in silence, until Linhardt’s chest doesn’t feel as tight. “Sorry,” he mutters, looking down at his hands. He doesn’t know when he’d unclenched them, but they’re intertwined with Byleth’s now. “And thank you. That was… ugh.”</p><p>“It’s okay.” Byleth moves close, the action looking reflexive, before he halts in place inches away from Linhardt’s face. “Uh—um, is it okay if I…”</p><p>Linhardt sighs again, although this time it’s more fond than anything. “You know, you don’t need to ask me every time you want a kiss.”</p><p>Byleth pouts. “Just to be safe.”</p><p>“Oh, go ahead.”</p><p>Today, Linhardt thinks they taste the same, because they both had the watermelon slices Jeralt left for them before heading to work—but there’s a bitter tang beneath the sweetness, an aftertaste of the coffee Byleth had drank earlier, and Linhardt wonders if that’s supposed to mean something. Right now, though, he doesn’t want to think about anything else but the feeling of Byleth on him—the feeling of his lips, his hair, his fingers, his <em> everything. </em></p><p>It’s too hot in the blankets now, so Linhardt wriggles his way out of them until he can clamber atop Byleth’s lap and kiss him there. There’s something different about the way Byleth is touching him this time, though—before, it had mostly been shy, fleeting brushes of lips on lips, and Byleth had always drawn back before anything else happened. But now there’s an urgency in how his hands roam up and down Linhardt’s torso and thighs, an addicting heat in the lick of his tongue. “Byleth,” Linhardt breathes, the syllables near-indistinguishable from one another.</p><p>“Am I—” Byleth pulls back, eyes wide and pupils blown. Linhardt can’t say he dislikes how he looks right now, hair ruffled and lips swollen. “Am I doing it right?”</p><p>“Mm. Good job.” Linhardt dips down to kiss the hollow of his throat. Byleth makes a satisfying little sound, one that Linhardt wants to hear more of. He nips at a spot above his collarbone, letting his hand drift lower and lower until his fingers catch on one of the belt loops on Byleth’s jeans. “Doing okay?”</p><p>Byleth nods shakily, gripping Linhardt’s arms a bit too hard. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” Linhardt says, reaching down with his other hand to undo Byleth’s pants. He’s still not quite sure what Byleth’s comfortable with, but this much should be fine.</p><p>Another nod. Byleth’s gone rigid, practically frozen, and his eyes are squeezed shut as his grip tightens on Linhardt’s arms. Linhardt doesn’t bother shaking him off—he knows how it feels to need something to hold onto—and, after much fumbling, finally manages to wrap a hand around Byleth’s half-hard erection. Byleth <em> whimpers, </em> burying his face in the crook of Linhardt’s neck. “Alright?” Linhardt whispers again, his free hand coming up to comb Byleth’s hair. “You want this, right?”</p><p>“Y—” Byleth breathes, in and out, then sighs heavily against his skin. “Yes. P-Please.”</p><p>Linhardt moves slowly, stroking him to full hardness first—Byleth shivers against him with every movement, soft breaths and pants escaping him, and Linhardt thinks he could get drunk on the sounds Byleth makes. Pre-cum leaks from Byleth’s cock, trickling down to the in-between of Linhardt’s fingers, and Linhardt’s throat is so dry it physically hurts to swallow nervously. He’s never seen Byleth like… like <em> this </em> before, and though Linhardt tries to tell himself there’s nothing special about a dick—he has it too, duh—it’s still difficult to keep his thoughts from buzzing around in his head like an angry swarm of bees.</p><p>“Lin,” Byleth gasps, and <em> oh, </em> that’s new. It’s a common nickname, one all his friends have called him at least a few times, but hearing it from Byleth, who almost exclusively calls him by his full name, makes Linhardt’s heart hammer away in his ribcage. Linhardt tightens his grip on Byleth’s cock, feeling it throb against his palm, and his mouth dries up when Byleth moans lowly and bucks his hips upwards to fuck into Linhardt’s hand.</p><p>It doesn’t take much else for Byleth to come—Linhardt only needs to scatter light kisses along his neck while his hand shifts slightly lower to brush against his balls, and then Byleth’s muffling his cry in Linhardt’s shoulder as he spills messily on his hand, his breaths fast and ragged. Linhardt waits for his breathing to settle and deepen before he guides Byleth’s face back to his for another kiss. “How was that?”</p><p>“Ah…” Byleth inhales, exhales, then presses his lips to the underside of Linhardt’s jaw. “T—Thank you.”</p><p>“You <em> did </em> enjoy it, didn’t you?” Linhardt asks, just to be very sure. It’s true Byleth says what’s on his mind without sugarcoating, but Byleth also has an unhealthy habit of being silent on things he’s not comfortable with for the sake of the other party.</p><p>Byleth smiles, looking amused, and just seeing his eyes crinkle is enough for Linhardt to sigh in relief. “It was… hm… different, I suppose… I mean—” His cheeks color, more than they already have. “Of course I’ve done it before, but. Um. You know.”</p><p>“Oh, I know.” Linhardt files the mental image away for later contemplation.</p><p>“Do you want me to…?” Byleth makes a vague gesture at the very obvious strain in Linhardt’s trousers. “But I might not, uh, be that good at it.”</p><p>Linhardt laughs softly. “Have some more confidence in yourself.” He shuffles around a little, meaning to make it easier for Byleth to undo his pants, but he’s taken completely by surprise when Byleth suddenly pushes him down to lie flat on the bed instead. Linhardt blinks up at him, at the determined crease between his brows and the conviction he can see glinting in Byleth’s eyes, and manages, “Uh… Byleth?”</p><p>“Let me try something?” Byleth asks. His hand moves down to unbutton Linhardt’s pants and tug them down, but he hesitates at his underwear—Linhardt tries to fight through the block in his throat and ask exactly <em> what </em> Byleth is going to try, but when Byleth unsurely palms him through his smallclothes, Linhardt suddenly can’t bring himself to care about whatever Byleth is going to do as long as he <em> does it. </em> “Is that a yes?”</p><p>“Huh?” Linhardt weakly mutters, only then realizing he had let out what must have been an embarrassing moan. “Oh, I… I mean, yes, right. Please. Do… whatever.” He props himself up on his elbows, although he gets dizzy right away at the sight of Byleth’s head between his thighs.</p><p>His budding expectations are proven correct when Byleth pulls his underwear out of the way and licks a long stripe down Linhardt’s dick. Linhardt hisses out a curse he forgets as soon as it leaves his mouth, one of his hands fisting in the bedsheets and the other tangling in Byleth’s hair. “Are you—Are you sure?” Linhardt gasps out. It’s hard forming coherent sentences when Byleth is still licking at his cock, his tongue growing slick and white with pre-cum. “Isn’t this—a little, I don’t know—”</p><p>Byleth looks up at him curiously. “You don’t like it?”</p><p>Linhardt feels ready to bash his head against the wall. “I—of course I do, but what about you?”</p><p>“I’m fine with it.” Then, with a little smile, “And I want to make you feel good.” Which is all the warning Linhardt gets before Byleth takes him in his mouth.</p><p>Linhardt moans again, not bothering to stifle it—he’s done this a few times to others, of course, but he’d never imagined he’d find himself on the receiving end, and with <em> Byleth, </em> of all people. His grip tightens on Byleth’s hair, tugging hard at the long strands at the base of his neck—Byleth’s tongue laves over him, slow and languid, almost exploratory, while his hands come up to grip Linhardt’s thighs and spread his legs further open. “Byleth,” Linhardt pants, “you—a-<em>ah, </em> you—”</p><p>He can’t quite get the words out, because there’s something so terribly addicting about Byleth looking up at him, eyes big and ocean-blue, lips stretched around his cock. “Byleth,” Linhardt breathes, brushing his bangs out of his eyes, “you… can I m-move?”</p><p>Byleth bobs his head up and down—possibly as a nod, possibly just to send shock waves of pleasure down Linhardt’s spine. He grits his teeth and rolls his hips deeper into Byleth’s mouth, just the tiniest push so as not to overdo it, but Byleth urges him even further in until Linhardt feels himself against the back of Byleth’s throat. Linhardt barely even registers the noises he’s making, the whimpers and whines falling from his mouth, the embarrassing moan he lets out when Byleth pulls back then sinks down again.</p><p><em> I love you, </em> Linhardt almost says—the words are ready on his tongue, waiting and expectant. But Linhardt bites them back in the last second, settling for groaning Byleth’s name out instead when he pushes deep into his throat. “I-I’m—Byleth, I’m going to—”</p><p>Byleth hums around his dick, and Linhardt muffles his sharp cry into his arm. When he opens his eyes again, unaware he’d even closed them, the first thing he sees is Byleth licking cum off his lips, which really just makes Linhardt want to shut his eyes again.</p><p>“How was that?” Byleth asks, grabbing one of the blankets and draping it over the both of them.</p><p>Linhardt sighs and buries his face against Byleth’s chest. “What do you want me to say? Of course it was good. I…”</p><p>There the words are again. <em> I love you. </em> Linhardt thinks he <em> should </em> say them—because he does love Byleth, he knows he does, and he’s never been more sure about his feelings in his life. But that’s <em> him—</em>even until now, Linhardt’s not sure how <em> Byleth </em> feels about <em> him. </em> Is this all just some sort of experiment for him, to see how a relationship is like before he drops Linhardt and finds someone better? <em> Like a free 30-day trial, </em> Linhardt thinks bitterly. <em> And once it’s up, he’ll go find a torrent download. </em></p><p>Byleth noses the crown of his head, sighing softly, before tilting Linhardt’s chin up to kiss him. He tastes of… well, of cum, but there’s that bittersweet mix of watermelon and coffee again. “Okay,” he murmurs, speaking against Linhardt’s lips. He’s wearing a content little smile, too adorable for Linhardt to get mad at, and his eyes scour Linhardt’s face as if looking for something. “I’m glad, then. I…”</p><p>He trails off. Silence reigns for another few seconds before Linhardt shakes his head and presses his face back against Byleth’s chest. Like this, he can match his breathing to the rhythm of Byleth’s heart, its beat constant and calming next to his ear. “So much for studying today,” Linhardt mutters. “Wake me up if Professor Hanneman emails me back… it’s been two days, I’m starting to think he’s too old for email…”</p><p>Byleth mumbles something in affirmation, but Linhardt knows he’s on the brink of sleeping, too. Oh, well. Professor Hanneman can wait as long as Linhardt did anyway.</p><p>It’s when Byleth begins to stroke his hair that Linhardt regrets lying down like this. Five minutes ago it had seemed like the most natural thing to do, but only now does he realize that he’s never <em>cuddled</em> with Byleth like this before (that one night didn’t count, as Byleth had rolled off the bed at some point in the night and woken up on the floor with a sore back). While Byleth strokes his hair. Finger-combs it. Runs his hand through it so tenderly that Linhardt could almost describe it as <em> lovingly. </em></p><p>He wants to scoff at himself. Linhardt doesn’t even know if Byleth actually, <em> genuinely </em> likes him as anything more than a friend. He’d never said anything, and Linhardt had never wanted to ask in fear of hearing the answer.</p><p>Does that make him a coward? A coward who knows no one could possibly like him for him, a coward content with just the sharing of their body warmth and a promise ready to break at any time between them, a coward who’ll take what he can get because he knows it’s all he deserves?</p><p>It’s a little pathetic, that Linhardt’s desperate enough to <em> settle, </em> if only because he can never have what he wants the most.</p><p>He presses closer to Byleth’s chest, wrapping his arms loosely around his torso, and breathes in deep. Byleth’s hand is as constant as his heartbeat, stroking Linhardt’s hair and lulling him to sleep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There were times, of course, that Linhardt had let himself hope.</p><p>They were almost exclusively at night, or in the dark. One day they had gone out for a quick lunch at a nearby café after someone had recommended it to them, and then they had decided to go for a little trip around the city, and had summarily gotten lost. It was too late to walk around at night, so they’d gone for a cheap hotel instead.</p><p>With only enough money to pay for a single bed, they’d had to cuddle for warmth. Completely platonically, obviously, although Linhardt pretended it wasn’t a few times. Byleth was shy about it at first, muttering about respecting Linhardt’s private space, but it became apparent quick that the absence of a heater in the room meant they were pretty much <em> forced </em> to share body warmth if they wanted to wake up the next morning without frostbite. So they’d gotten comfortable, talked about dumb mundane things, and then Linhardt had dozed off first.</p><p>But he’d woken up at some point in the night, to the faint feeling of something in his hair—which turned out to be Byleth’s hand, running through the messy locks and untangling them gently enough that Linhardt hardly even felt them. “What are you…”</p><p>The motion stopped. “Sorry. Did I wake you up?”</p><p>“It’s fine.” Linhardt buried his face deeper into the crook of Byleth’s neck. Like this, his breath ruffled the top of Linhardt’s hair. “Keep going. It feels nice.”</p><p>“Ah… okay.” So Byleth had continued, slow and relaxing, and Linhardt let himself sink into the movements. “Hey, Linhardt?”</p><p>“Mm.”</p><p>“Have you ever been in love?”</p><p>Linhardt toyed with the question for a few seconds, pretending his heart <em> wasn’t </em>running a mile a minute. “Once,” he allowed. “Why?”</p><p>Byleth ignored the question. “Does it feel nice?”</p><p>“What… do you mean?”</p><p>“Is it supposed to be painful, sometimes?” Byleth asked, his voice low and hushed, as if afraid someone else might hear. “Or when it hurts… do you wish you’d never fallen in love at all?”</p><p>Linhardt forced out a laugh. “Goodness, Byleth. What brought this on?” But Byleth didn’t respond, only stared imploringly down at him, and Linhardt sighed. “I guess… it’s been painful, in my experience. But I’ve never wished it didn’t happen to me, because that’s not how love is supposed to be, I think.”</p><p>“Then how?”</p><p>“Love is…” Linhardt frowned. How exactly was he supposed to describe it? “Well, love is such an abstract art,” he eventually decided. Never mind that he was plagiarizing a song—he doubted Byleth knew what it was, after all, the man only ever listened to classical music. And it was true, anyway. “It’s hard to pin it down exactly. It hurts, I guess. But… it feels nice, too. To love and be loved.”</p><p>Byleth hummed. “To love and be loved.”</p><p>“Of course, it doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes you’re only one of the two.”</p><p>“Ah.” Byleth sounded both sad and amused now, a combination Linhardt couldn’t be bothered to understand—he could feel himself in the middle of drifting off again. “Of course.”</p><p>“But when—” Linhardt yawned. “But when you’re both… when you’re both, I think that’s what love is supposed to be. Not just for one person, but… something to be shared. Yeah, something like that… pretend I’m poetic, okay…”</p><p>Then he’d promptly fallen asleep once more, as his constitution demanded. The next morning, he discovered Byleth had fallen off the bed and had spent an indeterminate amount of time sleeping on the floor, and he’d laughed himself to tears at the sight.</p><p>But now that things are… <em> like this… </em> Linhardt can’t help but wish he’d never told Byleth about any of that.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>[<b>byleth</b> ] [10:13am] <em> come over? to dad’s school </em></p><p>Linhardt sighs. What on earth would Byleth want with Linhardt in there? Besides, Byleth knows perfectly well that the preschool Jeralt works in is a ten-minute walk away from campus, and Linhardt could be using those ten minutes to nap. Or study, because Linhardt’s next class has quite the important exam coming up, and he hasn’t so much as cracked open the syllabus.</p><p>Linhardt packs his stuff and goes the ten minutes anyway, because he’s gay and in love.</p><p>When he arrives, Jeralt lets him in through the gates—after giving him a skeptical but resigned look, as is typical of the man—and Linhardt wanders through the corridors for a few minutes before he finds Byleth in one of the classrooms. “Hey,” he calls, and stops at the doorway.</p><p>Because Byleth’s surrounded by what looks like a good chunk of the class—the students are practically clambering all over him, pulling his hair and chewing his fingers and kicking his shins. But he’s… laughing, for some reason, listening intently to one child tell him a story while opening a candy wrapper for another. You know, generally looking absolutely fucking adorable. Linhardt can’t bring himself to do anything but watch, mutely, as if intruding on a sacred place.</p><p>Then Byleth glances up and catches his eye, and a smile blooms on his face. “Linhardt! Come in!” To the children, he gestures to Linhardt and says, “This is my friend! Everyone, say hello to Linhardt.”</p><p>“Good morning, Linheart,” the class choruses.</p><p>Linhardt doesn’t even care about how they pronounce his name. “Yeah, hi,” he greets, waving awkwardly with one hand. “Byleth, uh. What’s going on here. I didn’t agree to being your co-babysitter.”</p><p>“Don’t be that way.” Byleth pulls him down to sit next to him on the matted floor, and Linhardt has no choice but to follow. One of the children approaches him, staring blankly up at his face. Linhardt stares back until Byleth grabs his attention again. “I just wanted to show you—look at this! Bernadetta drew me.”</p><p>He holds up a God-awful crayon drawing from some kid, and Linhardt has no idea if he’s supposed to compliment how Byleth looks like he’s got a mustache. “Love the eyes,” he finally manages, to Byleth’s laughter. Linhardt can’t help but smile, too—he’s never seen Byleth this openly happy before, with how inexpressive he usually is. When they’d first met, Linhardt had honestly thought the man was incapable of feelings—now he knows Byleth was just born with the serious resting face, and it just takes some work to get a smile out of him. But seeing him now…</p><p>“Their teacher couldn’t make it today, and no one else was available, so Dad thought I could be a passable substitute,” Byleth explains. “Or, you know, at least someone to keep them company. There aren’t any lesson plans or anything. We played hide-and-seek a while ago.”</p><p>Linhardt glances over at the crowd of students. There must be at least thirty of them. “Did he lose every round?” he asks them.</p><p>The children nod in unison. Byleth grins sheepishly—God, just seeing Byleth grin is enough to make Linhardt’s head spin. It’s such a rare sight that he always has to mentally prepare himself when he can feel it coming. “They’ve been bullying me all day. We played tag too, I couldn’t keep up at all.”</p><p>“You mean you <em> let </em> them escape,” Linhardt says, rolling his eyes. He’s seen Byleth in PE classes. The man gave their teacher a run for his money, literally. Several times. “You really like kids, huh?”</p><p>Byleth scratches his cheek, a shy smile on his face. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I never really realized it before. I did babysit Flayn a few times, but I just thought she was like a little sister… but being with children like this…” He frowns. “How can I describe it? I guess I can say it’s fun. There’s a—a sort of fulfillment to it that you can’t really get anywhere else. And—”</p><p>He laughs, something melancholic laced in the sound. “You know when I was younger, and I was even worse at reading than I am now? The teachers in my old school were terrible to me and the other kids who were having trouble. It’s like… they never cared about us, you know? When I remember that, it makes me want to be kinder to children. They deserve it, I think, before they grow up and the world becomes a cruel place to them.”</p><p>Only when he goes quiet does Linhardt realize he’s never heard Byleth say so much in one go. “Oh. Um…”</p><p>“D-Did I talk too much?” Byleth stammers, his cheeks going pink.</p><p>“You’re asking me?” Linhardt smiles, leaning closer. “The absolute overlord of oversharing?”</p><p>“I guess that’s a no, then.” Byleth smiles back. One of the children pulls at his hair, and all Byleth does is lean slightly back to let them have a better grip. “Lin, do you think I’d do okay as a teacher?”</p><p>Linhardt blinks. He can’t say he’s not a little surprised, but he’s not entirely shocked either. Seeing Byleth now, surrounded by children inside a classroom, sort of already makes him look like one. “Is that what you want to be?”</p><p>“Not the most glamorous occupation, I know. But…” Byleth shrugs. “It’s something I want to do. And… that’s the first time I’ve ever really thought that about anything, I guess.”</p><p>“Does it make you happy?”</p><p>Byleth nods at first, looking blank as ever, before realization glimmers in his eyes. “Oh. <em> Linhardt.</em>”</p><p>Linhardt just smiles, reaching over to place his hand over Byleth’s. “Then I’m happy for you, too. You know that, right?”</p><p>“I…” Byleth swallows, looking down at their hands before interlocking their fingers together. “Thank you. Linhardt, I, um…” He glances around at the children surrounding them, a few listening in on the conversation but most of them just running around and playing by themselves. “There’s, um. There’s something I keep meaning to tell you, but—uh, I was just never totally sure about it. But after thinking about it, maybe I always <em> was </em> sure about it, I just never really understood because it feels like… like…” He looks up. “I’m not making sense, am I.”</p><p>Linhardt, who understands exactly how it feels to talk on and on without anyone understanding him, just shakes his head. “No, I get it. Go on.”</p><p>“Then…” Byleth tilts his head and offers Linhardt his shyest smile yet. “I love you?”</p><p>Something in Linhardt’s brain short-circuits.</p><p>“I feel like I always have, but I just never… knew?” Byleth continues, looking perfectly oblivious to Linhardt’s current existential crisis. “I’ve never really loved someone this way before, so it’s not like I would have known, I guess. But I’ve loved you for a long while now, I’m sure about that. I just don’t really know when I—” He blinks, then lets out a little yelp. “A-Are you crying?”</p><p>“No,” Linhardt says, crying.</p><p>“Did I do something wrong?” Byleth murmurs, looking close to tears himself. He reaches up and wipes at the wetness dripping down Linhardt’s cheeks, cupping his face in his palms so gently that Linhardt wants to melt into his touch for the rest of his days.</p><p>“No,” Linhardt repeats, still crying. “I just—I don’t—” How does Byleth expect him to just <em> be fine </em> after saying something like that without so much as a semblance of a warning!? All Linhardt wants to do right now is kiss him within an inch of his life!</p><p>Wait. He can. He actually can. He’s well within his rights to kiss him this time.</p><p>So Linhardt grabs his face and kisses him hard, right in front of the children, who all audibly gasp. Linhardt doesn’t care one bit, and by Byleth’s pleasantly surprised squeak and how he kisses back, it doesn’t look like Byleth cares much either. Linhardt refrains from using tongue—he still has <em> some </em> dignity—but he pours everything he has into the kiss, every word and every phrase he’d left unspoken. <em> You’re perfect, you’re beautiful, you’re everything to me—</em>and what else is there to say? Linhardt wishes he could go back to the start and tell Byleth everything, but all he can do now is try his best to make up for lost time and lost words.</p><p>When they separate, the children clap politely as if watching a movie. Byleth blinks, looking adorably dazed, and he’s still leaning forward as if expecting a second round. “What…”</p><p>“I love you too,” Linhardt blurts out. He squeezes Byleth’s hand, if only to keep himself from crying again. Then, because he simply can’t stop at just <em> one, </em> he presses close for another kiss—he hadn’t registered it at first, distracted as he was, but Byleth tastes of candy the children must have given him. Just the right amount of sweet for Linhardt to know it’s real. “I love you, too,” he repeats, if only because saying the <em> too </em> at the end has never felt better.</p><p>Byleth sniffs. Linhardt stares at him, wide-eyed, and has to bite back a laugh when Byleth scowls and scrubs at his reddening eyes. “Don’t. I’m not crying. You don’t get to tease me about this.”</p><p>“You sniffed.”</p><p>“Did not.”</p><p>“It’s fine. I’ll find a way to make you cry again.” Linhardt laughs at the mortified look on Byleth’s face. “I don’t think I can stop at just kissing you. How much longer do you need to be here?”</p><p>Byleth swallows and checks his watch. “A-Another half hour?”</p><p>“Well, make that half hour quick. I’ll be waiting in my dorm.”</p><p><em> Love—</em>an abstract art. Something that hurts, but something that heals, too. Something to share. Linhardt walks out of the classroom, casting a glance at Byleth behind him, and… it’s probably more than a little foolish, to think one smile could drive away all the problems he still has left to think about. His father, his future, his exam in an hour.</p><p>But Linhardt swears by those ocean-blue eyes—if anything could make those problems lighter, it’s Byleth’s hand and heart in his.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>- <a href="https://twitter.com/radiostarkiller/status/1231095291648106496">“…but it looks like you’ve got your mother’s eyes and smile.”</a><br/>- this is not the first, nor will it be the last, fic where byleth is/becomes an elementary school teacher. i will die on this hill.</p><p>thank you for reading (❁´◡`❁) if you liked this, check out <a href="https://twitter.com/featherxs/status/1239788477807349760">this tweet</a>!</p><p>
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